


Balm

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Gen, Horror, Nightmares, Post-Finale, unexplained phenomena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s a beautiful start to the day, but… something nags at him. He frowns at his muse. “Bill, are you… alright?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Bill laughs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”</i></p><p> </p><p>Post-finale. Contains MASSIVE spoilers for the finale. Angst, horror, descriptions of gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balm

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бальзам на раны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588009) by [fandom_gerontophilia_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_gerontophilia_2016/pseuds/fandom_gerontophilia_2016)



> Implied past BillFord. The Stans can be taken whichever way in this fic (gen or otherwise).
> 
> Based on prompts from my tumblr: 
> 
> 1) "The pieces of Bill left in Stan's head have gathered enough power to possess Stan." and  
> 2) "All that power had to go somewhere when Bill died. Stan isn't entirely human anymore."

“Rise and shine, Fordsy!”

Ford blinks.

He’s in the Mindscape. It’s peaceful, quiet… homely.

The galaxy hums a noiseless lullaby. Textbooks, comets, cryptograms, papyrus scrolls and assorted space debris drift sleepily past him.

Bill sits in midair before him, as always, legs crossed regally, eye closed, calmly sipping from a glowing cup of blue tea.

“Good morning,” Ford says, smiling. Is it morning? It feels like it’s morning.

It’s a beautiful start to the day, but… something nags at him. He frowns at his muse. “Bill, are you… alright?”

Bill laughs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because…”

_because you’re supposed to be dead_

Ford pauses. He takes stock of his surroundings again. Coffee table in front of them. Tea set on the doily. A chess set, halfway played. (More pieces on Bill’s end of the table, as usual.) The stars swirl by lazily. He looks up at the miscellaneous papers floating above them and with a start, realizes that they‘re all dated (back to?) 1981.

He’s in his sweater vest _no_ _that can’t be right I never wore this_ and he dimly remembers there being more wrinkles on the backs of his hands _six why do I have six fingers_ than there are at present.

“Bill,” Ford says, slowly. “What date is it today?”

Bill waves a dismissive hand in his general direction. 

“Time is dead and meaning has no meaning.”

“ _Bill_ ,” Ford stresses. _“What_ year _is it?”_

He looks up, looks up at Bill and _MY TIME HAS COME TO BURN_ the Mindscape has _changed_. Everything is _melting_. The fabric of the universe has been ripped apart behind Bill and it’s a gaping, massive, _hungry_ black hole of _nothing_ , and darkness, and despair, and fear and agony and –

Bill is melting. He’s melting like someone’s thrown blistering hot water onto a chocolate figurine and there’s flesh pulsating underneath his skin of yellowed bricks. Stanford _no he’s not Stanford HIS NAME ISN’T STANFORD_ tries to scramble back, but instead, he’s falling towards Bill, a slow, tortuous fall that defies all of gravity and never seems to end and he screams and screams and _THIS ISN’T REAL THIS ISN’T HAPPENING_ screams because he can see  _everything_. Bill’s skin is being stripped off of him in thin, flaky peels. It’s coming off in literal layers. Their names flash through his head as they unravel  _epidermis A dermis X hypodermis O fat L tissue O blood T muscle L bone_ and everything but his singular, unblinking eye is dissolving as Stanford _MY NAME IS STAN MY NAME IS STANLEY_ falls into it. He falls into Bill’s eye _STANLEY WAKE UP_ and it’s thick and sticky and suffocating _STANLEY WAKE UP PLEASE_ and he’s drowning as black, viscous fluid fills his lungs, his ears, his mouth. Someone (or something) is laughing. He chokes. He’s going to burst from it. It’s too much, it’s –

_I INVOKE THE ANCIENT POWER THAT I MAY RETURN_

“STANLEY!!”

Something slams into his right cheek.

Stanley tumbles off his bed – no, he _starts_ by falling off of it, but then he _really_ wakes up and tries to scramble away instead. But he’s in an extremely confined space. (Trapped.) His back hits a wall. _(Trapped!)_ He throws his hands up defensively.

_“DON’T COME NEAR ME!!”_

He gasps for breath, panting harshly as he stares at – as he stares at… it’s Stanford. His _brother’s_ name is Stanford. Stanford still has a fist raised and Stan can tell he’s wide-eyed even without having his glasses on.

Stan’s eyes swivel wildly to his own hands above his head and he counts them frantically: ten. He has ten fingers. Not twelve. He looks down and there’s his ugly paunch, his faded boxer shorts, his hairy legs and his sweat-stained wife-beater and his heaving chest and –

“Stanley.” 

Ford has lowered both his hands. They’re stretched out towards him, open and unarmed, and he’s inching very slowly towards where his brother’s backed himself into a corner. It’s almost as if he’s approaching a wild animal and for a moment Stan almost wants to ask _where the_ hell _is it_ because that’s ridiculous, what kind of animal would be able to get onto a boat at least fifty thousand miles from the nearest shoreline – 

“Stanley. Look at me. _Look_ at me…”

Stan looks but he doesn’t see. He becomes aware of a high-pitched, harsh whining that appears to be synchronizing with his labored breathing and Stanford is suddenly _very close_. Stanley throws himself backwards. He hits the wall again. The whining noise increases in pitch and frequency.  

“Stanley. Do you know where you are?”

“Gravity Falls,” he gasps immediately.

“No, Stanley. This isn’t Gravity Falls. We’re on a boat. Now, try again: Do you know where you are?”

This time he takes several gulps of air before responding.

“The Stan-O-War.” His eyes dart about the room. His beanie’s been tossed haphazardly over the head of his bed. A jumble of his and Ford’s dirty clothes are lying in a careless heap in a corner of the tiny room. Stanford still has his arms stretched out towards him, but this time it feels like less of a menacing gesture. “I’m… it’s the Stan-O-War II. It’s Twenty-Thirteen.”

“That’s correct.” Ford’s almost in front of him now, and he holds up his palms to Stanley. “Can you take my hands?”

Stan looks at his own hands again. Then back at Ford’s. Six fingers on each hand. Twelve fingers. Ten fingers. Twelve…

“I was you.” He doesn’t take Ford’s hands, choosing instead to wrap his arms back around himself, tucking them tightly under his armpits as though they might run away from him if he released them. “I was _you_ , Sixer, I was – he called me – ”

 _“He?”_ Ford’s voice turns sharp.

“Why did I have your memories?” Stan curls himself forward, drawing his legs up almost under his chin. He doesn’t answer the question. He can’t. “Why would he think I was _you_ if I wasn’t… if _I’m_ …?!”

He doesn’t get a reply. Stan flinches, as Ford reaches out to touch his shoulder – the one that had been branded thirty years ago – and maneuvers him so that the ugly, raised scar can be brought into full view.

“Stanley.” The last time Stanford had sounded this shaken had been when they’d agreed to switch clothes to defeat Bill. “Your scar is – your scar. Your scar is gone.”

Stan reaches back. His trembling fingers meet smooth, unmarred flesh.

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended as a one-shot. It's highly unlikely I'll write a sequel to this since I didn't plan for it and I don't wanna half-ass something. Sorry!


End file.
